


like a rolling stone we carry on

by CallMeBombshell



Series: in all these ways we come together [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship, bowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 13:32:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeBombshell/pseuds/CallMeBombshell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steph makes a short, disbelieving sound and turns away, shaking her head. Jason’s got his head cocked to the side, hands fisted around the edges of his pockets, shoulders creeping forward like he’s half a second away from falling into a fighting stance. And Tim… </p>
<p>Tim was having a good day. He’d been having fun, he’d managed to forget about the job for a while, he’d gotten to be a normal guy for a few hours, hanging out with a friend and being silly and not having to worry about crime or corruption or people’s lives on the line anytime he so much as took a breath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like a rolling stone we carry on

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [如滚石不曾驻足 / like a rolling stone we carry on](https://archiveofourown.org/works/957963) by [blurryyou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blurryyou/pseuds/blurryyou)



> thanks as always to sam for being my cheerleader while i wrote this, and for giving me the idea in the first place :D

Tim isn’t a huge fan of bowling.

Actually, that’s a lie; Tim does like bowling. There’s something about the practical application of physics combined with getting to knock shit down for fun that really appeals to some part of him that never really matured past the age of six.

What Tim _doesn’t_ like are bowling alleys, loud and shiny and usually full of horrible 80s pop hits turned up too high, as though the sounds of Abba and Cyndi Lauper will be able to drown out the thunk and clatter of the pins echoing across the room. There’s also a certain smell to these places, decades-old cigarette smoke mixing with body odor somehow sunk into the uncomfortable plastic seats, the scent of chemical-plastic cheese being melted over stale nachos and questionable hotdogs over at the concession counter.

Steph, on the other hand, loves bowling alleys, as evidenced by the way she’s been singing happily along (often at the top of her lungs) with every song that comes on. Tim’s halfway convinced she studied for this, learned which songs they’d play and learned all the words just so she could annoy him. But, Tim reminds himself, this is what he gets for not making plans with her sooner. He’s barely seen Steph in the last month or two, it feels like. They’ve gone on patrol together once or twice, and passed by on nights when they’re on their own, but that’s Batgirl and Red Robin, not Steph and Tim; it’s not the same at all. 

They’d made plans to spend some time just hanging out twice before, but crime and mayhem had gotten in the way both times. This time, Steph had decided to take no prisoners, accept no excuses, and so she’d cleared Tim’s schedule with anyone who might possibly need him for the next few hours, Tam and Dick and Alfred and Lucius, before showing up at Tim’s door with a wicked smirk and dragging him away.

“Stop thinking,” she admonishes now. “I can see it on your face, you’re brooding.”

That’s a trick, Tim thinks, given that her back is to him at the moment, hands on her hips as she surveys a line of luridly-colored bowling balls. Tim raises an eyebrow. “I am so not brooding.”

“You so are,” Steph shoots back. “You’re just doing it all quiet.” She stands, flashing him a wide grin over the top of the bright pink ball in her hands. “Now shut up and pick a ball.”

Tim rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bother to hide his smile as he hauls himself to his feet. He picks up a bright green ball, hefting it’s weight as Steph hits the buttons to input their names on the scoreboard. The green’s too light, so Tim picks another. Behind him, Steph is giggling; Tim looks up from testing an orange ball to see _GOLDIE VS. BIRDBRAIN_ flashing back at him, Steph’s smugly contented smirk firmly in place.

“You’re going to pay for that,” Tim tells her mildly, turning back to the rack.

“We’ll see about that,” Steph says, rolling her eyes.

“Ten bucks says I’ll rack up better than you will.”

“Oooh, big money!” Steph laughs. “Although, unsurprising, what with the bad case of blue balls you’ve got going there, sport.” 

She gestures to the ball Tim’s finally decided on. Tim rolls his eyes. 

“You’re going to be insufferable the whole time, aren’t you?”

The grin Steph turns on him is blinding. “You wouldn’t like it any other way, Timmy-boy.”

Tim grimaces. “Please never, ever, call me that again, that’s sort of horrifying.”

Steph laughs and reaches out to slap him in the arm. “Alright, alright, fine, just take your first shot.”

Tim shakes his head, but steps up, taking a moment to line up his shot before pulling his arm back. He swings a second later, releasing the ball in a thundering roll straight down the middle. There’s a sharp crack followed by a long clatter, and Tim grins widely as all ten pins go down at once.

“Oh yeah!” Steph crows from behind him. “Let your balls roll!”

Tim turns to look at her as he makes his way back to his seat. “That sounds uncomfortable.”

Steph laughs, throwing a smirk over her shoulder. “Maybe you’re not doing it right, then.”

Tim groans, hiding his grin behind the hand that he slaps over his face. “Oh my god, just shut up and take your shot, _Goldie._ ”

“My pleasure, _BirdBrain._ ”

 

 

Steph wins the first game by six points, stolen when she crept up to kick at Tim’s ankle as he went to take his shot, making him fumble the ball of to the left. She does a ridiculous little twirling dance as the scoreboard erupts into badly-animated pixellated fireworks. Tim rolls his eyes and laughs at her.

“You are so embarrassing.”

Steph sticks her tongue out. “And _you_ just don’t know how to have fun.”

“I know how to have fun,” Tim protests half-heartedly. “I just try to avoid doing mortifyingly bad dance steps in public, that’s all.”

“I’ll show you dance steps!”

Tim has half a second’s warning before Steph’s grabbed his wrists and pulled him up, yanking his arms back and forth while she bounces in place. It’s such a horrible, ridiculous parody of dancing that Tim can’t help the laugh that spills out of him, heedless of the way the couple at the lane next to them are staring.

“I yield! I yield!” Tim laughs, trying to pull his arms back. Steph lets him go with a _hmph_ and a pout, but Tim can see the smile winning out at the corners of her mouth.

“And just for that, funsucker, I get to go first this time.”

 

 

They’re halfway through the second game when Tim turns back from buying a bottle of water at the concession counter and catches sight of a familiar leather jacket.

Jason’s sitting at a table near one of the lanes at the other end of the room, talking with a couple of kids who look like they’re barely out of high school. One of them says something that makes Jason laugh, the others grinning up at him. Tim stares, eyes catching on the way Jason tilts his head back slightly when he laughs. He’s wearing jeans, old and well-worn, judging by the frayed bottoms, an equally-worn t-shirt stretched across his chest, cartoon graphic faded and all but illegible. There’s nothing of the Red Hood about Jason now, save for the jacket, looking innocent and unremarkable without Jason’s usual gear.

It should look creepy, Tim thinks, a twenty-year-old guy hanging out with a bunch of barely-teens, but instead it looks harmless; Jason could be someone’s older brother like this, giving up hanging out with his own friends to spend time with the younger kids. He doesn’t look like a fighter, doesn’t look like a man who’s killed with his bare hands. He doesn’t look dangerous at all.

It makes something twist strangely in his stomach, a sort of tightness in his throat that Tim doesn’t want to look too closely at. He turns away, headed back to the lane where Steph’s lounging with her phone out, waiting for him to come back and take his turn.

“Prodigal son at three o’clock,” she says, mockingly, as Tim sits down. “You probably noticed.”

“I saw him,” Tim says, setting down his water so he can grab his bowling ball instead. “Doesn’t look like trouble,” he adds over his shoulder. Steph _hmmms_ , but doesn’t say anything else. Tim takes his shot, grinning as eight pins go down; he waits while the machine spits up his ball again and then takes down the last two, a neat twist of his wrist taking car of the 7-10 split he’d been left with.

When he turns back, Steph’s glaring at her phone.

“Something wrong?”

Steph grimaces. “O wants me back at the clocktower. She’s got some info on a drug thing I’ve been keeping an eye on and wants me to take a look at it.” She huffs, looking away with a frown. “Dammit! I _told_ her I wanted a day off.”

Tim frowns. “Must be important, then, if she’s interrupting.”

Steph sighs, dropping her head back against her seat and closing her eyes. “Yeah, I know. I just wanted to have a normal day for once. You know?”

Tim nods, trying to exude sympathy. “Tell me about it. I hardly remember what normal is, some days.”

“Normal’s overrated, really, I think.”

Tim whips around at the same time that Steph jolts upright, staring over his shoulder at the person who’s come up silently behind them.

“Woah, hi.” Jason puts his hands up, palm out, grinning. “Sorry. Thought you’d hear me, you know, being all highly-trained and all that.”

Tim takes a step back, turning around to look at the other man properly instead of having to crane his head around over his shoulder. Beside him, Steph makes a noise, like a quiet sort of growl, and Tim sneaks a glance back over at her. She’s glaring at Jason, hands on her hips. As if sensing Tim’s gaze, she turns to look at him.

“Normal. I wanted _normal_ , not deadbeats and work.”

“Hey,” Jason says, frowning. “I resemble that remark.”

“Cute,” Steph snorts. 

“Also,” Jason adds hastily when Steph looks like she’s about to let loose another cutting comment. “I actually had a reason for coming over. I’m not just here to annoy you, fun though it might be.”

Steph just glares, so Tim’s the one who says, “And what’s that?”

“Heard through the wire,” Jason says, turning to Steph, “that a certain Bat was looking into the drug ring dealing out of the Electric club down in my part of town.”

Steph frowns. “Maybe I am. What’s it to you?”

Jason holds his hands up again. “Nothing, really. Just that one of my runners just informed me that they’ve got word the ring’s expanding, and they’re moving a lot of product to their new location tonight.”

“So why’re you telling me?” Steph raises one eyebrow. “It’s in your territory. I thought I wasn’t allowed in.”

Jason shakes his head. “The club’s in my territory, but the new location isn’t. You want to drop in on them, feel free. They’re moving out so I can’t put any more pressure on them, but I’m guessing they figure I won’t bother informing you that they’re heading into your area. After all,” Jason says, somewhat sarcastically, “everyone knows the Hood doesn’t mix with the Bats.”

He glances at Tim when he says that, mouth twisting into a smirk. Tim frowns back at him, but Jason’s already turned back to Steph. Steph, who’s staring at Jason, frown still in place, but Tim can tell she’s more confused than annoyed now. 

“So why _are_ you telling me?” she asks.

Jason shrugs. “I was passing by, heard you say O had some info for you, figured I might save you some of the trouble of putting it together by telling you first.”

Steph snorts. “How charitable.”

Jason’s grin slips, frustration edging into his expression as he jams his hands in his pockets, leaning in slightly. 

“You got something to say, Batgirl?”

Steph folds her arms across her chest. “I just don’t trust you, or anything you say. I don’t really care about whatever reason you’ve got for not working with us, or for keeping us out of your territory. But I know O’s wary of you, and I trust her instincts about people, so I’m wary of you, too.”

Jason shakes his head. “Gotham is all yours,” he says, quiet and angry-sounding. “Everyone fucking knows that. I only claimed a tiny part of it. Crime Alley is mine, my responsibility. But that doesn’t mean I don’t give a shit about the rest of it, too.”

“You’re just a regular old guardian angel, aren’t you?” Steph says, voice half-snarling as she glares daggers at Jason.

Tim can see a muscle twitching in Jason’s jaw, can practically hear his teeth grinding together. Jason makes a noise, a strange cut-off thing, before leaning in, frustration and anger chasing across his face as Tim watches, trepidation mounting in his stomach.

“I get that this is impossible for you Bats to understand,” Jason hisses, voice low from behind clenched teeth. “But I’m not actually the bad guy here.”

Steph makes a short, disbelieving sound and turns away, shaking her head. Jason’s got his head cocked to the side, hands fisted around the edges of his pockets, shoulders creeping forward like he’s half a second away from falling into a fighting stance. And Tim… Tim was having a good day. He’d been having fun, he’d managed to forget about the job for a while, he’d gotten to be a normal guy for a few hours, hanging out with a friend and being silly and not having to worry about crime or corruption or people’s lives on the line anytime he so much as took a breath.

Steph’s looking at Jason like she wants to blame him for her being angry, but Tim can’t. Because Jason may have come up and started talking first, but Babs had already interrupted their day when she texted Steph, and Jason was honestly just trying to help out, just trying to give Steph some info she didn’t already have.

“Okay, look,” Tim says after a long, strained moment, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You two can stand around arguing about the job for hours, because I’m sure you both have plenty to go on. _Or_ ,” he goes on, raising his voice slightly and holding up a hand when both Steph and Jason look like they’re going to say something. 

“Or, Steph, you can go talk to O and tell her what Jason just told you, see if it’s the same info she’s got for you. And Jason,” he turns to look at the other man, “will have his runners keep an ear out for anything else helpful, because we’re all mature adults who are totally capable of cooperating with each other.”

There’s silence for a moment, both Steph and Jason staring at Tim with oddly identical frowns and crossed arms. Tim looks back and forth between them, holding his breath.

Steph breaks first, gritting her teeth before letting out a sigh and turning back to look at Jason. “Fine,” she says. “But if you’re wrong, or your info gets anyone hurt, I promise I’ll come down to Crime Alley personally to kick your ass all the way up between your shoulder blades.”

Jason arches one eyebrow. “Threat heard and understood. But I promise, my info’s good. They’re my runners, they know better than to give me anything that hasn’t been confirmed.”

Steph eyes him for a moment, then nods, stiffly. She turns back to Tim, a real smile easing onto her face. “So I know I dragged you down here,” she starts, looking regretful. “But I should really get to the clocktower like, ten minutes ago. You got a way to get back home?”

Tim waves her off. “Don’t worry about it. Believe it or not, I am actually capable of getting around on my own.”

Steph just shakes her head, reaching out to wrap an arm around Tim in a quick hug before turning to gather up her things. She’s gone a moment later, one last wave thrown over her shoulder as she heads for the exit. Tim watches her disappear out the door, and then it’s just him and Jason standing there in not-exactly-comfortable silence.

Finally, Jason steps back, dropping into a seat and shaking his head, looking away with a long sigh that turns into a dry sort of chuckle at the end. “I’m glad I don’t run into her more often. Don’t think I could handle that all the time.”

Tim manfully resists the urge to roll his eyes. “She’s not usually like that, you know,” he says, sitting down opposite Jason. “She’s just not your biggest fan.”

Jason snorts. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Tim shrugs, somewhat awkwardly. He still isn’t sure how to act around Jason, how to fit himself into the spaces around him. Tim’s been dealing with the Jason-space in his life for years; first it was the excited bubble in his chest when he was a kid, sneaking out to crouch on grimy rooftops, camera in hand, hoping to catch a shot of Batman and the Boy Wonder, the new one, the one who’d grinned at Tim once when he’d spotted him from the roof of the next building over. 

Then Jason was killed, and the space became the gaping hollow beneath his sternum, kneeling in the dirt halfway across the city and trying to hold in his tears when he could only see one shadow swooping across the roofs, no smaller shadow bounding along behind, bright eyes and brighter grin.

For a long time, the Jason-space was the size and shape of the Case, smooth glass under Tim’s fingers in the early hours of the morning after patrol, Tim still wired from adrenaline, letting the coolness of the Case steal the tremors from his fingertips as he stared at the costume he’d never even dared to think he could wear, the shoes he would never be able to fill the same way.

And then Jason had come back, returned and resurrected, grown up slightly, more than his older body would suggest, and so full of anger and bitterness that it had made Tim’s breath catch in his throat the first time he saw him. He’d never seen Jason so close, close enough to see the color of his eyes, maybe, if they hadn’t been hidden behind the domino. He’d wanted to say something, anything, but then Jason was lunging for him, hate spilling from his lips, and Tim had twisted away, too slow, the Jason-space tripping him up as Jason’s fists slammed into him, slammed him to the ground. 

And then the space was Jason above him, anger and betrayal and so much grief in the lines of his face as he screams in Tim’s face, demanding to know if Tim really is as good as he thinks he is, the unspoken question between them: _Do you deserve to wear this costume?_

Tim remembers saying _Yes_ , forcing it out even as the black hovering at the edges of his vision started creeping closer. He remembers the look on Jason’s face, blank and unreadable, the last thing he saw before he passed out. He doesn’t remember whether or not he believed himself, whether Jason did. And then he woke up again and the space was the emptiness where Jason had left him, alive and bleeding on the floor, the Robin emblem ripped off his chest.

The next time he saw Jason was in the city, the space seeming huge, full of the city itself, the air and the lights and the shadows, too, as Tim watched the Red Hood sprint easily across roofs and through alleys, disappearing into the shadows without once turning to look at Tim, perched on a parapet with his cape drawn around him like a shield.

He’s gotten used to the way the universe seems to shift, just slightly, around Jason. He’s gotten used to it, but he hasn’t gotten any better at dealing with it, at figuring out how to bend his words or his movements to match that space. He’s making progress, he thinks, spending less time slamming to the the wall where the Jason-space meets his spaces and more time seeming to slip in next to it. He’s still separated by whatever intangible thing keeps Jason’s world so separate from Tim’s, but there are times, especially recently, when it feels like those walls are thinning, slightly. 

Tim wonders, sometimes, what it will be like if that ever happens, but the possibilities are all vague and strangely unsettling, so he tries not to think about it too much, saving it for the times when Jason’s only just left, his shadow still in Tim’s periphery, the shape of him still apparent in the way the air moves differently.

The thing is, Tim thinks, that despite the way Jason’s stopped threatening to kill him and incurring bodily harm on him at every possible opportunity, and despite the way Jason seems to be settling into Tim’s space these days, Tim still finds himself tensing whenever Jason comes around, limbs moving tight and jerky like they aren’t quite certain what to do with themselves. He can snap himself out of it easily enough when he has to, when he’s on the job, on patrol, on a case. Tim’s always been good at compartmentalizing when he really needs to.

But it’s the moments like this, when it’s not the Hood and Robin, when it’s just Jason and Tim, that make Tim feels awkward and small, his skin fitting oddly around his insides, his brain firing and snapping back in nonsense patterns that have him noticing things like how Jason isn’t armed except for a knife stuck in the top of his right boot; that his knuckles are dirty, black motor oil and not the rusty-red blood Tim hates seeing; that Jason’s hair is just barely too long, falling into his eyes when he ducks his head; the lines around his eyes, the ones Tim noticed before, the night on the roof, the ones that clearly come from smiling, even though Tim can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen it since Jason came back.

“Seriously, baby bird,” Jason is saying, “I don’t know how you deal with it. I mean, do they all just sit around bitching about me all the time?” and Tim blinks, mentally shaking himself back to awareness. 

“No,” he says, swallowing and hoping that Jason hasn’t noticed his lapse of attention; judging by the way he hasn’t moved and isn’t giving him any funny looks, Tim’s going to assume he hasn’t. “No, they, uh. They don’t really talk about you at all.”

Jason snorts, turning away. “Figures.”

Tim glances carefully at Jason’s expression and winces slightly; there’s hurt there, buried underneath a lot of carefully-layered disdain and frustration. He looks down. 

“Sorry.”

Looking up through his lashes, Tim watches as Jason turns to look at him, frowning, expression somewhere between baffled and incredulous, brow furrowed as he stares at Tim.

“Sorry? What’re _you_ sorry for?”

Tim shrugs. His fingers are twitching, wanting to fidget; it’s a nervous habit he thought he’d kicked years ago. He wants to say that he’s sorry that everything he really knows about Jason he heard from someone else. He wants to say that he’s sorry that Jason died and when he came back there was someone else using his name, his title. He wants to say that he’s sorry because he knows how hard it is to trust people when everything you think you know about them is screaming that they don’t care about you. He wants to say he’s sorry that Bruce has the emotional understanding of a goldfish and that the rest of them are often just as bad.

But he can’t say any of that, isn’t even sure how he’d begin, so Tim just settles for saying, “I’m sorry things are awkward. I know you’re helping us out, you’re on our side. I just wish it was easier to actually _be on_ the same side.”

Jason regards him for a long moment. Tim can feels his gaze like a physical weight, resting on his shoulders, his hands, his face. He keeps his gaze trained down, staring at where he’s got his fingertips pressed together, fingers flexing against each other anxiously. That’s not to say that he is anxious; it’s just that the full weight of Jason’s attention is sort of a terrifying thing, even (maybe especially) when it’s unexpected, like now, no fight to distract him, no blade at his throat or fist flying at his face. Just him and Jason and the way none of this is nearly as uncomfortable as Tim would’ve thought it would be.

“Thanks,” Jason says, finally, voice quiet; there’s something genuine about the way he says it, a little worn, maybe, a little rough, that makes Tim look up. Jason’s expression is just as unreadable as before, but Tim thinks he can make out a hint of something like gratitude around his eyes.

“It’s the truth,” Tim says, and it sounds too honest even to his own ears, too blunt and plain, not enough diversion, not enough implication of something, anything else, no hidden layers or hidden meanings. He’s a Bat, after all; dead honesty is not how they communicate, and for all that Jason stands apart from them, he’s still a Bat at heart. Looking up, Tim sees Jason’s eyes widen slightly, mouth rounding a little in surprise.

“Anyway,” Tim says quickly, rising to his feet in a sudden burst. “I should get going. No point sticking around here anymore.” 

Jason follows suit more slowly, rising from his crappy plastic seat with infinitely more grace than Tim had shown. 

“Right,” he says, and Tim is relieved that he sounds normal, slight sarcastic edge to the word, slight smirk on his lips. “Gotta get back to important stuff in your nest, baby bird?”

Tim grimaces slightly at the name, but answers anyway. “Homework, actually. Ten-page essay for Art History.”

Jason’s eyes widen again. “Art history, huh? That your major?”

Tim shrugs. “Photography, actually. Started taking pictures when I was a kid.” He smirks slightly, enjoying the way Jason’s eyes narrow slightly, clearly all too aware that he’s missing something. 

“Never would’ve pegged you for an artsy type,” Jason says, tilting his head sideways a bit like he’s literally trying to look at Tim from a new angle. “Banking, maybe, or lawyering.”

“I actually considered it,” Tim says, “ _Lawyering_ , even. My dad wanted me to do it. But,” he shrugs. “It wasn’t really my thing, it turns out.”

“And photography is?” Jason asks, curious, tilting his head back the other way.

Tim shrugs again, smiling slightly. “I like it.”

The look Jason gives him is appraising, but not in a bad way. There’s something almost _proud_ in Jason’s expression, just for a moment, but then Jason shakes his head and Tim loses sight of it before he can examine it closer.

“Better get you back to your nest so you can work on that essay, then,” Jason says, smiling. “Wouldn’t want you to fail out, after all.”

“Time for some thrilling adventures in riding the Gotham cross-town express bus,” Tim flashes Jason a cheesy, exaggerated smile and a double thumbs-up. Jason snorts, rolling his eyes.

“Sounds thrilling,” Jason says dryly. 

“Sure is,” Tim agrees. “You, too, can spend an hour fending off drunks, assholes, and uncomfortable innuendo while stuck sitting in a scratchy bus seat with someone else’s crotch right in your face.” Tim gives into temptation and does a little jazz-hands motion. “It’s a great time!”

The laugh that spills out of Jason surprises Tim, sudden and loud and bright as it is; from the look on his face, it surprises Jason too, which just makes him laugh again, dragging Tim along. It takes a few minutes for them to catch their breath, and then they’re just grinning at each other again.

“Well, I’d hate to deprive you of your evening’s entertainment,” Jason says with a smirk, “but if you’re up for it, I do have an alternative for you.”

Tim raises his eyebrows. “And what’s that?”

Jason smiles wider and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I took my bike over here. There’s room on the back; I can give you a ride, if you want.”

Tim blinks. He thinks he’s maybe a little stunned. “You’re offering to give me a ride. To Wayne Tower. On your motorcycle.”

Jason shrugs. “I needed to swing up that way, anyway,” he says, dismissive, like this isn’t the most surreal thing that Tim’s heard in a long time. “I can just drop you off on the way.”

Tim stares for a minute, brain whirring like static in his head. He’s seen Jason’s bike before, just brief glimpses of it stashed in an alley here or there, all swooping curves and shiny black paint like a classic Harley, although there’s something about the shape of the gas tank that makes Tim think it’s a custom build. He’s been wanting to take a closer look at it for ages, but he hasn’t had the opportunity. Until now, apparently. 

“Yeah,” Tim hears himself saying. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

Jason grins at him then, big and bright, and tilts his head vaguely in the direction of the doors. “Let’s get going, then.”

“What’s your errand?” Tim asks as they push through the glass doors, finally leaving the noisy chaos of the bowling alley behind.

“Hotdog stand a couple of blocks down from the Tower,” Jason says. “They make the best chili dogs in the whole city.”

And Tim has to just stop for a moment and stare, because Jason’s smiling so wide, to happy, because he likes chili dogs from a greasy vendor cart downtown, and this is something Tim never knew, could never have known about him, that Jason likes his food simple and cheap and maybe a bit disgusting, but it makes him happy in a way that Tim thinks vaguely can probably be seen from space.

It’s so unlike any version of Jason that Tim has ever known, and he can’t help but wish that he had his camera with him, to capture this moment and hide it away under his bed with the rest, just so that if anyone ever asked him, he could bring out that picture and say, _Look, look here, this is proof that Jason Todd is a real boy, that he’s not just broken wooden limbs, that he smiles and can laugh, that he eats and breathes and lives and loves chili dogs because they make him happy._

“Sounds pretty good,” Tim says, smiling back. “You’ll have to take me some day.”

The grin Jason turns on him is… there isn’t really a word. Radiant, maybe.

“I’ll do that, baby bird. We’ll do that.”


End file.
